


Morbidity

by xBubble_Teax



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assisted Suicide, Dark, M/M, Mental Health Issues, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 08:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15725436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xBubble_Teax/pseuds/xBubble_Teax
Summary: If you had the chance to choose when you would die, how would you plan your final moments? With your family? Or with the stranger who agreed to end your life?





	Morbidity

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This fic was written in December 2010 and transferred from my LiveJournal account. 
> 
> This fic contains A LOT of sensitive topics and issues that may result in triggers. 
> 
> PLEASE do not read this if you are triggered by suicide, assisted or otherwise, self harm or general dark and depressive mental health issues. 
> 
> If you're OK with all of that, then please go ahead. I am not endorsing these elements in any way, shape or form. This is simply a work of fiction and is instead meant to be enjoyed as a moment of inspiration for an intense story ^^ Please enjoy <3

 

Eyes glance to the phone buzzing on the coffee table - another call already?

I raise my eyebrows at the abruptness. Usually it takes three or four days for the next one but this was the second time today.

The newly lit cigarette sits comfortably in between my lips while I lean through the smoke to examine the screen. As expected, it was another unknown number,

“Oh you poor soul,”

I look at the ticking clock on the wall; only 3.am.

With a sigh I notice this caller has no intention of hanging up. I usually give them the latter of thirty seconds to change their minds. That way I can be sure this is what they want.

I can’t count how many of them have taken that chance to walk away and think clearly. On rare occasions I have some of them call back on a different night; months, weeks or days after the first time they’d tried.

With a heavy heart it seems this one is pretty certain, my hand lazily edging forward to grip the phone at last.

Well, we can’t all be heroes can we?

“Suzuki here,” I speak softly, calmly; a reassurance to their predictably vulnerable state, “Can I help?”

I hear a sniffle and a shaky breath trying to hold itself together. It’s only natural so I lean back in my chair and intake another bout of smoke while I wait.

It’s another two minutes before I hear a fresh sound. Not of which becomes words, but something only sorrow has managed to swallow up and take advantage of. Something sad and formidable,

“I know why you’re calling,” I tell them delicately, and that grants a small whimper of surprise, “There’s no need to be afraid,”

I’m met by further hesitance but it doesn’t bother me. They’re always fragile, always desperate to make sense of their wants and fears and most of all, they’re probably struggling to know why they’re calling me.

But I don’t get involved. My job is to fulfill the one desire they have so they can be happy for the final time. What they think and feel is down to them. I vow to be no part of it; it would only complicate things further. Moreover, it would fuck my mind up as well,

“C-Can you help me?”

My ears perk up at the sound of a tender voice; soft and smooth, hollow from crying but beautiful nonetheless,

“Yes,” I answer, tapping my cigarette over an ashtray, watching the smoke drift from the round object with each tumble of brazen tobacco,

“O-Okay,”

They sound young, which is always a shame. Part of me wants to convince them that they have much left to live for. Most of the time it’s just the confusion and hardships of growing up that drives a client to the edge. Too many of which I have received over the years.

I hold the phone in the crook of my shoulder while I reach for a notepad and pen, “You need my help?”

This time the answer comes quick, “Yes,”

“Alright,” I breathe, “I just need to ask you a few questions first okay?”

“Umm . . . sure,”

I flick through the lined pages one by one until I reach the numbered bullet points I’d set aside for each interview. I needed to know everything first. It was important to determine their character; for without I couldn’t give them what they want nor would I be able to leave without a hint of regret,

“There’s nothing to worry about,” a hint of a smile twitches my lips, “This is simply routine,”

“Oh. R-Right . . .”

Still stuttering. Perhaps there’s time for him to take that second chance after all,

“Can I know your name?” I ask gently, pen poised at the beginning of a fresh page; every other before it torn away and the names listed now forgotten,

“I-It’s Takanori,” the other stutters, “Takanori Matsumoto,”

“That’s quite a mouthful,” I hum with a smile, gliding the ink along in smooth handwriting, “Do you have a nickname?”

“Oh. W-Well Taka usually suffices,”

I nod, “What your friends call you eh?”

I pushed it too far. There’s no answer,

“Okay, moving on,” I say lightly, taking another small puff from the cigarette before putting it back down again, “Your age and birthday please,”

“N-Nineteen,” Damn. That’s one of the youngest I’ve had, “And I was b-born on the 1st of February,”

A child of spring. When the world changes and blossoms into bright and beautiful colours. Such a shame . . .

“Alright,” I breathe after a while; after asking him about his interests, the subjects he’s studying at college and his family. Already I knew I was dealing with an adopted orphan with a profound interest in art who sits and writes lyrics in a small café in town somewhere.   
  
Surprisingly, he sounded quite the elegant type; unusual for him to be driven to make this very phone call,

“Finally Taka I need to ask something that may be difficult for you to answer,” I inform softly; this part of the conversation usually gets a little difficult, “But that’s okay if you can’t tell me straight away, alright? It’s not my position to pry, I just need to be sure that it is a valid reason that you’ve contacted me, okay?”

Takanori slips back into a nervous state and he only grunts a hesitant acknowledgement,

“I need to ask you the reason why,”

“W-Why?” the other repeats, and I grimace as his breathing becomes laboured in my ear, “W-Well the same way anyone else does it, I guess. I just can’t take anymore. I see no other way out than this! I-I feel trapped and alone and . . . and I can’t –!“

“Easy, Taka, easy,” I tell him, his voice high and desperate and more than anything I don’t want those feelings seeping through right now, “It’s okay, just calm down,”

I can tell he’s crying; the gentle wheezing I hear trying to control those sobs held inside him,

“Deep breaths,” I murmur, opening another packet of cigarettes, the other now empty, “Just take your time,”

A soft cry lets slip, and he brings it under control quickly, “Th-Thankyou,”

“Just had to be sure,” I assure him, scribbling down his reply in a summed up sentence of four words,

_Just can’t take anymore._

I nod and take the time to scan down the list of remaining questions while I light up another smoke. It seems within no more than half an hour, I have almost everything I need.

There’s just . . .

“Is there a specific way you want me to do it?”

It’s a tough question. Most haven’t even thought about it. Others give me clues such as wanting it quick and painless or as slow and peaceful as possible. No matter what the request is, I can certainly meet it without fail.

Perhaps I’ve been in this job too long,

“Oh well I’ve umm . . . kinda read about this . . . i-injection –?“

I already know what he’s looking for and I get up to wander through to the bathroom,

“Was there a particular drug you had in mind?” I ask, pulling open the cabinet above the sink and sliding the interior mirror aside to reveal my hidden compartment of medicines,

“I-I don’t know,” Takanori whispers, “S-Something painless,”

My hand fumbles around until I find the bottle containing potassium chloride,

“I’ve got it,”

It was a favourite among my clients, this one. Completely seductive and desirable. Painless and infected with toxins that will send your head gliding above cloud nine before it finishes you.

It was the perfect candidate for him,

“O-Oh you do?” Takanori asks me, as I examine the liquid inside the bottle closely, “W-What will it do?”

I sigh through my nose; certainly an uncomfortable topic to discuss. But, in order to sell . . .

“It’ll slowly send you to sleep,” I say softly, “After you fall unconscious . . . your brain and heart will slowly shut down. You won’t feel a thing,”

A deep breath, “A-Are you sure?”

“I promise,”

It takes him a while to reply to me; I assume he’s gathering the realisation piece by piece. That’s good by my standards. When I’ve met clients on past occasions, there have been too many who have bottled out at the last minute. It isn’t nice. Especially when it’s already too late.

Three months ago, a girl called Mimi had called me mid-December. I’d already given her the overdose before she suddenly told me she didn’t want it. I could do nothing but watch her as she screamed at me to let her live, struggling in my arms in a battle to break free of an inescapable death.

And she wanted to die with a smile on her face . . .

I shake my head; I’m determined not to let any of my clients suffer that again.

Takanori coughs on the other end of the phone, “O-Okay. I’ll take it,”

I just hoped he was strong enough too.

 

*

 

I arrived at Takanori’s house just under an hour later; a small family home with a cosy front garden and family sedan parked out front.

I never perform my work at home. The obvious reason would be, of course, that I would like to keep a hidden identity. Grief is an ugly thing, and I have a faint idea of what might happen if any relatives of my clients happened to find out the truth. Then there was the second reason. And that was to provide my clients with the comfort of their own home or a location of their desire when the time came. Whatever they wanted, it was my job to provide it.

I cut the engine of the car and survey Takanori’s house through the car window. Why he would be unhappy here was anyone’s guess. It seemed a perfectly innocent standard of living. Particularly comfy-cosy.

Still, it isn’t my place to pry and I make a quick sweep of the street to make sure no one’s in sight. Satisfied, I grab the rucksack sitting on the passenger seat and make my way to the back door as Takanori instructed.

He’s already waiting in the doorway by the time I arrive; dressed in a dark hoodie and a pair of ripped jeans torn at the knees.

But by God, he’s beautiful.

Layered blonde hair askew in jagged directions and glistening dark eyes, red and sore, but stunning all the more.

Simply gorgeous. A tainted design by God Himself,

“Takanori?” I ask gently and in turn I receive a nod, his bottom lip wobbling as my arrival has no doubt brought about the reality of his request of me.

I see him breaking down so I step forward,

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” I whisper softly, laying a hand on his shoulder and stepping into the kitchen with him.

I watch his shoulders shake as he leads the way through the darkened house; every light turned off to prevent his family from waking, I’m sure.

We eventually reach his bedroom and he flicks on a floor light in the farthest corner. Now entirely bathed in dim light, I can see his cheeks are coated with wetness, of which he tries to wipe away with the sleeve of his hoodie.

I walk to the side of his bed and place my rucksack on the small office chair sitting at the desk beside it. I notice he draws a lot after all; the walls patterned with artwork and sketches of numerous objects. In particular he seems to favourite the works of a red lotus flower, my eyes wandering over Takanori’s creations of it sitting in the middle of an open book. Floating along a lonely river. Withered and dying in a black and white meadow,

“What’s your name again?”

I startle a little and turn to face him behind me; his face distant and upset, his hands shoved into his pockets timidly as he surveys me with uncertain eyes,

“Akira,” I answer coolly, “Why do you ask?”

The younger shrugs and looks to his feet, the toes of his shoe tapping the bed as though testing its strength.

I do nothing but watch. This is always the awkward part. The client always waits for me to initiate proceedings when in actual fact, it is them who should say when they’re ready, not me,

“Are you sure you still want to do this?” I ask gently, making a move to open my rucksack.

 Takanori’s woeful eyes watch me from a considerable distance, though I hear him move closer once my hand delves deep inside,

“O-Of course I’m sure,” I turn to see his lip wobbling again, “I just want everything to end . . .”

My heart clutches at how degraded and devoid his voice seems to be. As though what was once a man had been ripped away from him and shattered by a foreign hand. A man with nothing left to live for. Keeping hold of a broken heart . . .

My fingers brush against the glass casing of the bottle and it brings me out of my thoughts. I suppose the only comfort I could give myself was that I would be the one who would kindly end it for him. Let him go and be at peace at last.

Not that I should get emotionally attached to such things of course.

But Takanori seemed so beautiful. And he had so much talent. I could see that just by glancing at his wallpaper and reading the lines of lyrics sitting on strips of paper around every hard surface.

This boy must be in pain; it’s visible in this room alone. Using cheap tools of escapism such as painting and writing when in deep reality he knows it’s not the kind of freedom he’s looking for.

My hand settles on the syringe wrapped in a plastic cover; the needle delightfully thin and it shimmers as I hold it high in the air.

In the corner of my eye, I see Takanori flinch,

“You don’t have to be frightened,” I soothe, removing the syringe from its casing and running a finger up and down the needle.

Takanori squeezes his eyes shut, “I-I’m not,”

He falls silent once I fill the syringe with the dose of potassium chloride that’s desired for the job. Not on its own of course, I had to gather a few extra supplements before arriving here. Good thing my pal Kai works the night shift . . .

I add the extra doses of the other two drugs before carefully placing the syringe back on the desk. Ironically it happens to rest on one of Takanori’s lyrics that read: “I want to feel no pain . . .”

I turn to see him looking slightly pale, and I all of a sudden worry that he may just faint; despite the fact he insisted he didn’t have a phobia nor any allergic reactions that I should know about,

“Here,” I walk over and take his shoulder again, “Sit down on the bed for a minute,”

To my slight horror, his dark orbs muster the strength to look at me somewhat broadly,

“W-Why?” he stammers, his small body shaking under my hold, “W-What are you going to do?”

I flash him a reassuring smile, “Nothing. I won’t do anything until you tell me to,”

I lower him onto the bed and place a pillow behind his back for a little extra ease, and I notice grimly how nervous he is; his body shaking like a leaf against my own,

“Can I get you anything?” I ask him, my eyes glowing concern as I stare down at his hands now shaking in his lap, “A drink of water? Something to eat? Perhaps you’d like me to put on some of your favourite music?”

Takanori’s head lifts up to look at me in a bewildered manner, “W-What?”

I sigh, “Look, my job doesn’t just involve killing you,” I whisper, “My job involves killing you in the most perfect way you would ever want it. Count yourself lucky, Taka, because not a lot of people get to choose how they die,”

The younger’s stare turns hard then, and something inside of him seems to have cracked,

“You think I  _want_ this?!” he cries quietly, both of us vaguely aware of the other residents in the house, “You think I  _want_ to die at all?? Well I don’t! And I only hired you because some people said you were cheap and you could do it quickly!”

That should have made me feel a little downgraded. Only it didn’t. For some odd reason it only made my sympathy for him grow,

“It’s okay to be scared –“ I start,

“- No,” Takanori shakes his head, the hands in his lap now clenched tight into fists, “No, it isn’t! You must think that the people you kill everyday a-are suffering from d-depression or . . . or . . . they’re in debt . . . or something stupid like that, but they have no idea what real pain feels like! No idea!”

I flinch; it offends me the way he’s just talked about my clients. The people I once knew and then killed by their request,

“It  _is_  my job to ask why, Takanori, do you remember?!” I hiss back at him, “On the phone when I asked you for a valid reason, I do that with everyone – and every time the answer is almost always heartbreaking to hear,”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. Just sits there crying while trying to control the trembling in his hands,

“Why do you even do this job anyway?” he sobs at me, and I shuffle against the bedcovers, uncomfortable with his question, “Why do you care so much how people want to die? Why give them an escape?”

I choose not to answer. Perhaps I didn’t even have one to give,

“That’s irrelevant,” I say, in the kindest way possible, “Now, you talked about the atmosphere you wanted as you fall asleep hm? Tell me what that was,”

Takanori swallows hard and I feel my stare grow softer as he struggles with himself; the sobs that come out sounding heavy and restricted, as though he’s kept them locked away inside himself for years,

“I just w-wanted to be . . .” he hesitates and bites on his lip, “. . . To be held by someone as-as I slip away,”

I faintly wonder how much more of him I can watch; grimly surveying as he cups his hands over his nose and lets himself go, sobbing heavily into his palms.

There have been worse reactions, I know. Crying isn’t the worst of them. Hazuki screamed until his voice broke; Haruka worked up such a state that she trashed her entire apartment. As for Yachi, well, she sat with her legs wrapped round her knees almost all night, saying nothing, doing nothing.

To me, crying was normal. I saw it too often, which is probably why I don’t really cry much myself,

“Taka . . .” I call softly, moving to sit in front of him on the bed, “If you want to die so much why are you crying about it?”

He hiccups . . . sobs harder,

“Isn’t this what you want?” I ask him gently, taking hold of his wrists.

Under my fingers he flinches and with a cry, snatches them away from my reach,

“Please . . .” he wails, “. . . D-Don’t  _just_  kill me,”

I narrow my eyes . . . open my mouth to speak,

“Don’t!” he pleads, his head rising to look at me for the first time in minutes, his eyes absent and wide once more – the very look that makes my words die on the tip of my tongue, “Before I die, I want you to do something! Y-You said you would do whatever your client asks right?!”

I try not to concern myself with the volume he was speaking at; his parents seemed to be very deep sleepers. But there was something so desperate in his face that made me feel uneasy, and I didn’t really like the direction in which this was going,

“Y-Yes, Taka, my job is to make sure you die in the way you want,” I say slowly, hesitantly, “Why, what is it?”

Takanori hangs his head, scrunches the bedcovers tight in his fingertips and at the same time I feel my stomach clench in unison,

“I . . . I want you to . . . hurt me,”

I recoil and let my eyes run over his disconcerted face. If that wasn’t enough it’s how calmly he says it,

“Stop it,” I mumble, “What do you think I am? Some kind of sadomasochist?”

“No, please, you don’t understand!” he calls as I stand up and walk away, “I-I deserve this! Please, I need to feel some kind of pain!”

“What are you talking about?” I turn around and face him with the most menacing glare I can, “I don’t torture people Takanori – you must have heard about me wrong. I only help you to die, as if that wasn’t already a crime in itself!”

“Please . . .” he whispers, my heart aching as his watery eyes shine so morbidly. A single tear crosses paths with another as it runs down his cheek, “Please, just make a few cuts . . . that’s all I want,”

I shut my eyes. I should have known he was a self harmer. And before he dies he wants that same feeling of ecstasy to run through him before I inject him with that fatal needle. Already he was in so much emotional agony that he felt dragging a blade through his skin would take his mind off of it. But now he was asking me to do it? To make him happy?

I didn’t know what I should do,

“Just a few,” he pleads furthermore, and I can feel my strong will weakening on me, “Just so it can take the pain away . . . please. Akira,  _please_ ,”

No client of mine has ever addressed me by my name before. For some reason, something inside me warms at the mention of it.

I turn to look at him coldly, “Just a few,” I say sternly, “A few and no more, do you hear me?”

To my small delight, a hint of a smile passes his face, “Yes, thank you!”

It’s unsettling that he already has a knife kept in the top drawer of his desk, hidden under a stash of notepads and small collection of stationary, and he takes it out to hand to me.

I chew on my lip, cornered by my own rules and regulations,

_Whatever they wanted, it was my job to provide it._

I take a deep breath and realise with gruelling discomfort that Takanori has already laid down on the bed, waiting. His face almost looks eager, which is a tad disturbing, and when he rolls up his sleeves –

Well. I knew as much,

“Do you do this often?” I ask slowly, my index finger running over the reddened lines one by one . . . drifting up to the deeper ones sitting near his elbow,

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he whispers back, his chin dipped while he watches me trace the scars in calm trepidation, part of me wondering what was so bad he had to do this to himself.

He isn’t the first one I’ve seen of course. Others have been far worse; bruised and burnt are the most extreme. Still, it does nothing to stop me from hating the sight of human skin in such a self inflicted state. In fact, it thrives up a desire to help them.

But I can’t. I have to remain detached.

I turn the knife over in my hands, “Where do you want me to cut?” I whisper solemnly.

Takanori shrugs and lets his eyes scan over both of his arms, “W-Wherever there’s space,” he says sheepishly.

I do as instructed; though finding a space is like trying to find your way out in a maze. There were far too many.

And when I did finally settle on a clear patch of skin by his wrist, Takanori draped his spare arm over his eyes as the cold metal blade came into contact,

“Sorry,” I whisper when he hisses, forcing myself to watch the skin break apart. Watch it fold away and blood well to the surface . . .

I calmly told myself over and over that I was a terrible person. But perhaps when I’d started this job, my mind already knew that,

“Ouch,” Takanori moaned some time later. I haven’t been keeping track of how long it’s been or how many scars I’ve made on him. I daren’t.

I wish he’d tell me to stop soon. It was like tearing through someone’s soul piece by piece . . . and the writhing Takanori had started underneath my hold was starting to upset me a little. He’d been crying ever since he told me to drag the knife a little deeper midway up his arm; so much so that the cut had reduced him to tears. The amount of blood that seeped out helped me understand why,

“Please Takanori, that’s enough,” I say firmly, retracting the knife from the last fresh cut I’d made, watching the blonde suck in air as the sting took hold, “You’ve had your few now,”

I give him time to recover, slotting the knife next to the syringe and I rummage through my backpack with shaking fingers to locate my leather gloves,

“Th-Thankyou,” Takanori murmurs behind me; and despite the agony and numbness his arms must be in, somehow he manages to reach over towards me.

And take my hand.

I look up to find he’s smiling softly at me,

“Okay,” he grins, “I’m ready to die now,”

My fingers squeeze his own and I seat myself beside him, pulling on the gloves one hand at a time, taking Takanori’s hand in the other while I do so,

“C-Can I ask you another favour?” he breathes, licking his lips as he watches me reach for the syringe,

“Anything,” I answer, softly smiling in his direction despite the vial of poison held in my grasp,

“Will you hold me while I go to sleep?”

I purse my lips together, hard. In turn I was fighting with myself not to cry.

Because look at him. Look how beautiful he is. Ignore the scars and I had an untouched work of art sitting before my eyes. An imperfect work of art, maybe, but . . . something so special it was such a shame I had to end it this way for him.

But duty was duty. And as much as it killed me I had to stay by his side until the end.

I return him a friendly smile, “Of course I will,”

Takanori nods, his lips still upturned in a grin and it makes me somewhat happy that this is the way he’s going to leave.

_With a smile on his face_

“Are you ready?” I ask shakily, my grip still tight on Takanori’s hand as I bring the needle closer.

The younger nods . . . but I can’t help but remain hesitant,

“Are you sure?” I urge, a part of me hopeful that he’ll change his mind, no matter how wrong it is of someone like me to wish it, “Is there no one you want to say goodbye to? Nothing else I can do for you?”

Takanori’s eyes flicker in the direction of his desk, “It’s alright. I’ve written a note to my parents,”

I glance behind to follow his gaze, and in fact find that there is a red envelope addressed to his Mum and Dad sitting by a photo frame; on a family holiday is my guess. A young Takanori standing in the middle with a cheeky grin,

“After I’m gone . . .” Takanori whispers, “Can you place the letter and that photo at the end of the bed for me? I-I want them to know that I . . . despite everything they did, that-that I love them?”

The tears fall again and I catch his voice breaking as he tries to tell me something else. Instead I shake my head, assure him that if that’s what he wants, then I’ll do it,

“Come here,” I say softly, bringing out a small first aid kit and taking a small bottle of anaesthetic and a cotton wool bud.

I note he looks nervous, even turning his head away so he can cry a little to himself. The sight saddens me further.

I coat the cotton wool with the anaesthetic and get him to take off his hoodie so I can reach the upper part of his arm.

Obediently he does as he’s told, and I find I’m soon dabbing his smooth skin, ready for penetration,

“This will sting for a little while,” I tell him, as calmly as possible, taking a moment to let the anaesthetic work its purpose.

The more time I spend waiting the more I become accustomed to Takanori’s gentle sobs against the pillow, his hand squeezing my thigh now that both of my hands are preoccupied,

“You can still change your mind,” I remind him, “All you have to do is say the word and I’ll stop the –“

“- No,” Takanori says firmly, his chest heaving as he stares at the ceiling above; eyes drowning in his own tears once more, “You don’t understand, Akira. I can’t stay here. I can’t live like this anymore; this . . . this is the only chance I’ve got,”

I bite my lip firmly, holding the needle completely still a little way away from his skin.

It isn’t long before Takanori picks up on my reluctance,

“Akira, please,” he begs me, a sob breaking through on that final word, his hand holding my thigh that little bit tighter, “Please do this for me . . . please end it. I want you to end it. If you don’t . . . I-I don’t know what else awaits me. W-What else is going to make me suffer –“ he breaks down then, our eyes locked in a deep gaze, “- It’s your job, Akira, just kill me now! Let me go . . .”

I think a moment, pushing down the lump in my throat before I lean forward and kiss his forehead; unable to hold back the care I have for him. After all, he’s so young and so scared. Vulnerable and alone . . .

“Just relax your arm,” I whisper, taking hold of his bicep while he sinks back into the confines of his pillow again. I squeeze until I can see the vein I’m looking for . . . position the needle at the edge,

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, going against my instinct and piercing his skin . . . feeling the bitterness descend over me as I inject the drug.

Takanori cries out briefly, a succession of sobs bursting their way through his lips,

“Shhh . . .” I comfort him as much as I can, pushing my thumb as hard as I could just to inject it quicker; at least then I could take it out sooner and let him be at peace.

Beautiful Takanori . . .

“A-Akira –“ the younger manages to choke, but I shake my head as his own rolls to one side and faces me again,

“It’s okay,” I tell him, “It’ll be over in a moment, I promise. You can go to sleep soon,”

“H-Hold me –“ he grimaces, tears slipping past his cheeks and down his chin,

“I will,” I promise him, smiling as softly as I could for him, wanting him to be as relaxed as possible, “Shhh now, it’s almost over,”

It must have been the longest overdose I had ever given; a lifetime passing before the syringe is empty and I can finally remove the needle.

I toss it to the desk; the object of my very hatred right now and I use the cotton bud to wipe up the small amount of blood trickling from the incision. While I’m at it, I take a few bandages and tend to his scarred arms; not wanting him to die in a pool of his own blood,

“A-Akira . . .” he calls for me, just as I’m tying a knot in the bandage on his right arm,

“I’m right here,” I assure him, “It’s over now, okay?”

He smiles a little at that, his lips twitching a touch and once I’m finished, I do as he asks and slip beside him, folding my arms as best as I could around him.

Takanori raises his bandaged arms up to hold onto the collar of my shirt and turns on his side to snuggle inside my chest.

I smile and hold him tighter; knowing that he is bound to be scared of this. He’s still so young. Barely an adult as it is,

“It’s okay,” I tell him, a hand coming up to stroke his hair; delightfully soft beneath my fingertips, “You don’t have to be afraid anymore . . .”

Takanori’s body convulses a little; a minute more is all I have left with him,

“A-Akira?” he stammers, the drug starting to shut his body down as he fights to stay awake, “Th-Thankyou for . . . everything,”

I smile gently down at him, giving him a squeeze, “You can be at peace now,”

“Yeah . . .” he smiles and closes his eyes for a brief moment.

It isn’t long before his breathing gets fainter and fainter, and I flinch as I notice there’s a bright light shining across us both.

Confused, I turn around to the window . . .

“Taka, look!” I whisper, shaking him awake again. Thankfully he rubs his eyes and forces them open, me pointing outside,

“Can you see?” I tell him lightly, the auburn orange cascading magnificent shadows across Takanori’s bedroom,

“No . . .” Takanori grumbles groggily, and I frantically look at my watch – I don’t have much time left.

I grab him as gently as I can, not wanting him to slip away just yet . . . one thing I know he’ll like to see before he dies . . .

I sit him up in front of me on the bed, so we were facing the window; still maintaining my promise and holding him from behind,

“Look,” I point ahead, “The sun is rising,”

I smile as his eyes struggle open to watch out the window. At the sunburnt sky and white clouds concealing the dark orange orb shining into view,

“Now, isn’t that beautiful?” I whisper against his ear, Takanori nodding against my shoulder,

“A-Akira,” he struggles to say my name even more than before and I worry he’s going to go any minute; his head dangerously hanging and it takes all the strength in my hand to hold it upright,

“A-A favour . . .” he whispers absently, his breath fading away bit by bit as I hold him close to me, his muscles slacking in my arms.

I nod at him, “Tell me anything, Taka,”

“K-Kiss me . . . g-goodnight?”

I watch as his face softens . . . oh so near to eternal sleep.

_Whatever they wanted, it was my job to provide it._

His skin feels so cold underneath my gloves as I bring him closer . . . let my lips envelope his gently . . .

The sun warm against our faces, I feel him take his last breath against my mouth . . . his hands slip from my chest . . .

And in my arms, I feel him die.

I let my tears fall, let my lips pull apart from his.

I gaze down at his beautiful face . . . bring up my fingers to close his eyes.

And with one word that he deserves after all this heartache, I lean to whisper in his ear,

“Goodnight,”

*


End file.
